I'll Tell You How He Lived
by GertrudeThePale
Summary: "Will you . . . would you tell me . . . how did he die?" And with those short words, it came to Bilbo; great words that he knew were the correct beginning of such a tale. A tale of sorrow, and of melancholy, but the kind that could only have been borne from something of great love, and of greater loss. "No, my Frodo. No, I will tell you how he lived." Movieverse AU, BagginShield.
1. Chapter 1

o-O-o

Bilbo stared out the southern window of his hobbit hole, the light of an early morning dappling through leaves and tickling his face. Smoke gently wafted up from his pipe, full of Old Toby, on this rare occasion that he allowed himself an indoor reprieve. It was early winter now, and there was a unique mix of creaking wood, scattering winds, and melancholy drifting through the air. Before, as a younger lad, Bilbo had loved rising early to watch the first sunrises of the winter season, awake before dawn and waking his restless spirit as the sun broke steady over the far hills. Now, as he went rather gently into older age, curiously not yet showing many signs of aging save a grey hair or misplaced wrinkle (much to the chagrin of cousin Lobelia Baggins who was rather fervent about him croaking whenever he liked so she could finally get her hands on his silverware and oak wood furnishings), the winter offered a more sobering outlook on the world; that his prized strawberries would soon succumb to the frost and he'd have to sell away his soul to find proper jam in the Shire winter, and that it was close to one very somber anniversary.

Suddenly he felt irritable, squirming in his chair, feeling as though the soft wood had splinters under him, prodding him into discomfort and decided to rise from his once comfortable position scowling at the seat all the while. The long pipe clenched between hard teeth, he went to the window. He always became more irritable during this time of year, though that could never be attributed to his aging demeanor. He'd since forgiven himself for his change of mood, coupled with the lack of niceties that inflamed his disparaging. While he was a Hobbit, and Hobbits nonetheless enjoyed a friendly nature and open homes with tea and good conversation, he found that after his return from his adventure so many years ago he was less inclined to welcome strangers.

Smoke rose lazily into the air, brushing against the opaqueness of the glass, flowing toward a small gap between the wood molding and a window pane, escaping out into the dawn. Bilbo sighed a lengthy breath, feeling altogether jealous of the ability of the smoke to simply slip away, and disappear before his eyes. It was times like these, he thought, when he most missed his adventures. His eyes grew misty, not enough for any tears to fall, thinking back to the splendors of Rivendell, how the music of the elves would float through the gardens and halls as if played everywhere at once, and the grand architecture of Thranduil's keep in the Greenwood, which he would have very much liked to explore under better circumstances than his last visit.

But it wasn't just the adventure itself that he felt melancholy for; I honesty, he often doubted he would have left the Shire if the company of dwarves that found themselves at his doorstep were any different. He was quite comfortable that night they arrived, and had any group less awkward and proportionately charming infiltrated his Hobbit hole he would have shut the door on them and tucked in to a good book. Bilbo chuckled at that, shaking his head in a light bob of still red curls. He missed them all dearly, some nights more than others . . . and some more than most.

With a final huff, Bilbo decided that he had spent enough of the morning dwelling on dwarves and had- beens, and turned on his heel to snuff his pipe in the small ochre box he kept by his bed. No sooner than he had turned, a familiar beaming face crossed the threshold of his room, bounding over with a youthful energy that Bilbo was quite fond of.

"Uncle Bilbo, good morning!" Frodo clamored, plopping himself on top of the newly smoothed linens Bilbo had laid out at the foot of his bed. On any other day, he would have simply chided Frodo with a smirk and remedied the situation with a jam cookie for the both of them. Today, he simply sighed and shooed Frodo away, laying the linens back into place. The young child frowned, knowing he had annoyed his Uncle, and withdrew a number of steps from his presence. "Sorry 'bout that, Uncle," he apologized graciously. Frodo's politeness had always astounded Bilbo, and he took great pride in that he was raised in such a cordial manner. In spite of the wistful morning, Bilbo quickly shook his head, and decided firmly to remove all traces of grumpiness from his day, knowing that it would do neither one of them any good to be in a foul mood. "It's quite alright my boy, quite so. Linens can be smoothed over, as can a sour expression." At that, Frodo smiled once again, giving him a smirk that was all white teeth and dimples.

"Now, Frodo, how shall we use this fair morning?" Bilbo inquired, having stored his pipe and walking a few rooms over to his writing desk, nestled among the gentle, but organized, clutter of his study. Taking a quick seat, he motioned for Frodo, and the boy happily placed himself propped on Bilbo's knee, looking in fervor at the crisp sheets of newly inked paper that Bilbo was stacking out of the way.

"I think I'd like to hear a story today Uncle, one about your adventures!" Frodo lead on. "My adventures again," Bilbo questioned with a grin, "the same adventures you hear about at least three times a month and quite more than that if I were giving an honest estimation?"

Frodo simply giggled and tucked into Bilbo closer, knowing that he would be getting his way. Bilbo wrapped a firm arm around the boy, finishing his shuffling of documents with the other before strumming his fingers on the table wondering where to begin _this_ time.

"Once," he began, "long ago, there lived a Hobbit in the Shire, whose Hobbit hole wa-," "No, no, no Uncle Bilbo, not that one. I want to hear the _new_ story that you've been writing, the one on those papers you moved over there," Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo tensed a bit, realizing that he should have guessed the young boy would have snuck a glance at his latest musings, and was more embarrassed than annoyed. What Frodo didn't realize, was exactly the nature of what he had begun writing, and Bilbo hadn't intended for it to be seen by anyone but his self.

His eyes glanced over to the foremost page on the pile of parchments, barely more than a collection of selected ramblings so far; but what careful selections they were. In Bilbo's rolling script, unknown to the boy, words of deepest emotion had flowed onto the papers swifter than the waters of the Brandywine. . .

' _In every lifetime, there is at least one mystery, one unsolvable event that perplexes the mind and heart well past the crux of its bearing._

 _It was an unexpected, and at the time, unwelcome manner that mine would come to be known to me, and I do not believe that any mortal or god could come to explain just how a Hobbit of Bag End in the Shire could come to wish himself, for all the life of the earth, to a dwarf by the name of Thorin, Son of Thrain, King Under-'_

"Uncle Bilbo, I read your manuscript." Frodo said, pulling Bilbo away from the parchment. "Why have you not told me this story before? It's just like your other tales, but I've never heard it told like this, it sounds lovely, and full of-," "Oh, Frodo," Bilbo replied with a pained look that could have told all of the story in its own, "Lovely, yes, very lovely a story it is."

Frodo hopped down from Bilbo's knee, giving him a look that seemed all too wise for a young Hobbit that had not yet seen much more than a decade of life. "If you'd like, I can ask you to tell me again once you finish writing. Or you could just tell me about the Trolls again."

"No, Frodo, I don't think that will be necessary. Especially not since you've gone sneaking a peak at it already," Bilbo said with a wink. "Come, let's go into the kitchen and have us a few of those jam biscuits from the market and a nice cup of tea. This particular story might just take all day."

They went then into the next room, gathering their supplies for a day to be filled with an unmeasurable number of fantasies and confessions, and tucked into their two most comfortable armchairs while Bilbo started up a small fire in the hearth. Frodo sat patiently, nibbling contently on his snacks, waiting for his uncle to begin weaving his grand tale.

Moments passed once Bilbo settled in, unsure of how he could begin explaining such a complex tale to someone so young. Admittedly, he hadn't planned on telling Frodo this story for some time, though, he decided that now was better than never, since he seemed to hold the boy's utter curiosity.

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo asked timidly, "If you were so fond of this man, where is he now? You wrote of him like he was a great friend, and like how my parents used to talk about one another. "

Now this was something that caught Bilbo unaware. The boy had gleaned more than he thought from the few short pages.

"Did. . . is he. . . is he passed on to the next life, like ma and da?" Frodo questioned softly, placing his small hand gently on top of Bilbo's, who started at the unexpected touch, but welcomed it nonetheless. He grasped onto the warmth of the boys hand, finding solace in the comfort of the gesture. Bilbo stared at it, so small, and soft without the telltale signs of work and hardship. How could he begin to tell such an innocent boy, though with grief of his own still written on his face, of a loss so deep and bottomless that it had never faded? He said nothing yet, simply taking a long sip of his cooling tea, wondering how to begin. Frodo shifted, slightly uncomfortable at his uncle's silence, but unable to suppress his childlike urge to ask his questions. "Uncle Bilbo?" Bilbo turned to him. "Yes, my dear boy?"

"Will you . . . would you tell me . . . how did he die?"

And with those short words, it came to Bilbo; great words that he knew were the correct beginning of such a tale. A tale of sorrow, and of melancholy, but the kind that could only have been borne from something of great love, and of greater loss.

"No, my Frodo. No, I will tell you how he lived."

o-O-o

A/N: Thank you for stopping in to read my story! Just a few things to sort out:

This story is taking an AU approach to The Hobbit, sticking to the movieverse more so than the book, and will have very, _very,_ slow burn Bagginshield, because it wouldn't be appropriate any other way. I'll be including some dialogue from the film, though I will be changing scenes and some events around so the story isn't simply regurgitated from the movie. Thank you again, and have fun with this!


	2. Chapter 2

o-O-o

It was a quiet, and rather uneventful day when Gandalf came to the house of one Bilbo Baggins, and though quiet as it was, and with Bilbo being a respectable Hobbit with proper manners, he found the intrusion to be rather irritable. It wasn't without a quirked eyebrow and irritated wrinkle of his nose that he stared at the old wizard, wondering just which of his cousins would have the nerve to send such an unsightly character to bother him.

"Good morning young master hobbit, my name is Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey some call me."

Bilbo looked at him oddly for a moment, the name sounding like something he had heard in some children's tale from long ago. But no matter the charm it brought, it was undoubtedly rude of the fellow to announce himself with such impropriety.

"Very well and good, Gandalf, yet I do not seem to know you, and you see, and while we hobbits take quite fondly to guests, we have a rather adverse opinion of intruders." Bilbo touted with a small sniff, and began to slide back toward his front door from his garden bench. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I was just about to tuck in to a spot of tea and a fresh book, so goo-."

Ignoring him with a slight chuckle, the wizard proceeded to press into Bilbo's garden in spite of his wish for lack of company and chased Bilbo to stand, much hunched over, in the foyer of Bag End. Not quite knowing what to do, Bilbo stared out toward his garden, where he should have seen the wizard turn tail and walk promptly away, and twitched up his nose with a defeated grimace. He turned heel, closing the door behind them so his neighbors would not witness a scene if there was one to be had, and confronted his 'guest.'

"Now look here sir, what mind do you have to be so stubborn on entering my home? If this is the introduction that typically serves your encounters I would be quite loathe to greet the company you usually keep."

At that, Gandalf gave a curt laugh, and, almost like he had been to Bag End before Bilbo noticed, turned heel to pass into his drawing room, barely missing a low (for his height) support beam that covered the top of the threshold. Something about the wizard was oddly familiar, Bilbo concluded, yet he doubted he'd formally met his acquaintance at the time. He didn't feel threatened, something that surprised him, merely . . . intruded upon, yet not by someone he found wholly distasteful. He hedged to guess that it was more of the rudeness of their introduction that made his mood toward the old stranger soured. Gandalf quickly took a seat in the most accommodating of the chairs, few and far between for a person of his stature, and drew up his long sleeves with a flick of his wrist, easing into the palatable cushions as if he had not had a good furnishing to sit in for a long while. With a sigh, unable to shake the manners of a hobbit, Bilbo went into his kitchen, producing a second saucer and cup of hot tea.

"Ah, thank you," Gandalf said with a genuine smile. He took a sip, fervently blowing at the steam rising from the amber drink. "I do not think, Master Baggins, you would so much mind the company that I keep, seeing as your presence is one that I have sought."

Bilbo sat on his own chair, crossing his arms in front of him, not yet convinced of how to take in his newfound guest. An odd fellow, Bilbo noted, an odd fellow indeed.

Seemingly aware of Bilbo's thoughts, Gandalf set aside his cup on a table, politely using an appropriate bit of cloth to set his drink down instead of soiling the wood Bilbo noticed, and spoke again. "I take it that you do not see many old wizards wandering around the Shire, then? It's no matter, and it may do you surprise to know that I have been here many times before, though seeking different conversation quite some time before now."

"Actually," Bilbo noted, "though I am quite certain we have never spoke, I feel as though you are not entirely a stranger. But you are a rude old sod, I'll tell you as much."

At that, Gandalf let a hearty and genuine chuckle, clapping his hands together as though he was satisfied by some action that Bilbo had taken. "Hobbits are such wonderful creatures, dear Bilbo. I cannot say that there are any other on Middle Earth that would feel so defensively bothered at an interruption during tea. And quite intimidatingly so! Ha!"

Bilbo felt himself warming toward his guest, and recalled some far distant memory of his mother talking about a tall stranger dressed in grey that would bring fireworks for the Shire children when his travels took him past the hobbit lands.

"Now, enough with the nice chatting, I would like to know what exactly has prompted you to come bother me this morning."

"Rightly so Bilbo, rightly so," Gandalf began, gently folding his hands into his lap. "We do not have much time to discuss matters, because I so happen to be on a bit of a schedule."

Another twitch of his nose. "And what schedule might that be?"

"You see, young Master Hobbit, my party is more than just myself, and I've come to seek reasonable accommodation for a group of rather weary travelers, and well, I could think of no better a place in these parts than the welcoming smallfolk of the Shire to hos-"

"Alright now, that's quite enough!" Bilbo exclaimed, rising from his chair making a small shooing motion with his hands. "It's one thing to try and coerce a cup of fine tea from an unsuspecting hobbit, but to invite a band of three, four-,"

"Thirteen, actually."

" _THIRTEEN,_ " Bilbo sputtered, "strange travelers into my home is for too much abnormal for this hobbit, so sir I say to you good _day,_ and farewell for your business here is no longer welcome."

Despite Bilbo's stern look and haste to force his leave, Gandalf continued his speech with no slight. "Bilbo Baggins, of all the hobbits in the Shire that I have known, I have always considered Tooks and Baggins the most reasonable, and I implore you to hear my reasoning for my request before you truly make up your mind. To think that I would live to be shooed and 'good morninged' by the son of Belladonna Took . . ."

Tooks being most reasonable, Bilbo thought, was a far stretch from what most would say . . . yet if Gandalf knew enough of hobbit affairs to know he was Belladonna's son, than perhaps he had a more thorough reason for his request. Begrudgingly, but not before going to fetch the tea pot to refill his cooled beverage (and tactfully ignoring Gandalf's outstretched cup), he sat back down to hear him out.

"Now," Gandalf began, "I must explain that this is no ordinary company, so you may be, well, a bit surprised should they arrive late into the evening. They prefer to keep their travel a secret you see, they don't much care for nasty rumors much more than you hobbits do. All they ask is for a warmed hearth, and if not too much trouble, a fine meal."

Bilbo thought for a moment. "What exactly, then, is the nature of this meeting of fellows? There are fine inns in Bree to accommodate a larger party."

"No, no, they find the din of the city of a hindering sort, they seek a more . . . private setting for their discourse."

Though Bilbo was still very thoroughly confused at why exactly this needed to take place by way of a hobbit, he could understand well the comfort of knowing one's thoughts weren't being sung to an unwanted crowd. He ran his thumbs together in a circle, drawing his face into a contemplative way for some time, before resigning to his decision. "I cannot make any promises as to my mood tomorrow evening."

"Wonderful, simply splendid. And you may want to purchase quite a bit of wares lest you see your pantry empty," Gandalf exclaimed, gathering his things now that his request had been met. He chatted a bit about random things as he gathered himself, something about 'not buying too many vegetables at the market,' and turned to leave since his matters were settled. Yet not before finally striking his head against the same board he had managed to dodge earlier. With a wince, he carefully ducked under and proceeded to open up the door.

"Oh, Gandalf," Bilbo called to him as he put his rather pointy hood back on his head, "if you have the time, you may want to warn them about the shortened ceilings, might save them a bit of trouble if they've not stayed in hobbit lands before. Not that I'm saying they're welcome, I've yet to make up my mind."

"Now that, Master Baggins, is something that you needn't worry about." And so he left, Bilbo confused, curious, and perplexed all in one, deciding that the only thing he could make sense of out of all of it was his grocery list, and even that seemed to have some odd stipulation. Yes, he thought, odd was the correct word for this day; not a word that hobbit folk were too keen to. But it had been as Gandalf had said; he had Took blood in him, and no matter how much his Baggins side begged him to lock the door away for at least a fortnight, he was quite curious to see just how this thing would turn out.

o-O-o

Bilbo Baggins was not at all pleased at how this thing was turning out. It had started well enough, him having returned promptly with plenty of refreshments, and a more curious mood about him, and he had been quite confident he was ready to face whatever came knocking upon Bag End. That is, until a rather stout and malicious looking _dwarf_ covered in _tattoos_ of all things had come pounding at his poor door, with a pensive sneer that made Bilbo jump when he was greeted by it. He had bowed curtly at Bilbo, offering service by the name of Dwalin, and invited himself right in, immediately inquiring about the status of dinner. Bilbo simply didn't know what to respond with, and stood aside with a stare as the dwarf made his way to the dining hall, and invited himself to Bilbo's freshly pan cooked fish and near all of his muffins.

He could see why Gandalf wasn't at all concerned with that pesky beam he was constantly dodging.

When the second knock came, Bilbo had to physically brace himself on the edge of the door to keep from falling, and chose to peer out rather cautiously, expecting to see any number of markings and piercings on the next caller. Instead, only adding to the churning of his already uneasy stomach, he saw a plumper, shorter guest with a great white beard and kind eyes. With a more gracious bow than the last, he named himself as Balin and asked entrance to Bag End. The dwarf trotted over to the other, giving him a sly eye, and the two began to chuckle, embrace, and _knock heads_ together, as Bilbo stood in his foyer with a rather blank look.

At this point, Bilbo thought that nothing more could surprise him, and so he opened the door with a straight face and a great twitch of his nose until they had all arrived, before he was sure he had had enough of surprises for one evening. He now had twelve, all rather different, dwarves astride his well-crafted (and soon to be scratched he was sure) dinner table, all clamoring with each other over who would get the ham shank that adorned the center of the table.

He took some small comfort in that no one seemed to be arguing over his rosemary turnips, something he considered to be one of his finest party dishes. At least he would have something to eat by the end of it.

They were all such an unruly bunch, and Bilbo could only look on as they made what he could only describe as an aftermath of a culinary battle in his dining room.

After a good hour had passed, and Bilbo thought he would soon be in the ground if a single more disruptive thing happened to him that evening.

But Bilbo Baggins had yet to endure the greatest shock of the night.

A final, curt knock came at the door after some time, and Bilbo found himself stuck between his table and a rather portly fellow by the name of Bombur. Seeing his predicament, Gandalf, who had arrived some time before, rose to answer the door in his stead. Upon opening the door to see the (hopefully) final guest, he broke into a wide grin, and clasped the shoulder of the other man in firm friendship. Bilbo could not yet see the stranger's face, and was being coerced by the brothers Fili and Kili to open up another large cask of his oldest vintage of brandy.

"Gandalf," the stranger called, taking off his deep azure coat in the doorway, "I thought you said this place was easy to find. I got lost. Twice."

Upon hearing his voice, the rest of the dwarven company tensed, and a collective breath held in the air while they watched their last companion come into view. Bilbo stared along with them, and when he saw who stood before him, he felt rather strange. Dressed in a fathomless blue, he carried himself with a grace Bilbo found unexpected for a dwarf, and gave a curt nod and grin to the others before him. Before long, they were rushing to him, inquiring about his journey and health as he smiled back at them, like a father proud to see his family after a long day's work.

Bilbo went across, then, to welcome him, as he felt compelled to give this particular dwarf a more proper introduction than the others.

"You must be our host, then," Thorin said rather kindly, dipping his head slightly in a polite gesture, something that Bilbo took great notice of. He had found at least a few dwarves that evening with a proper set of manners.

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

o-O-o

By the next morning, all notion of niceties, propriety, and manners had long since been thrown far out the window. Bilbo lay in his bed, sheets pulled up below his scowling chin, unable to sleep after the great disturbance that had been lent to him the previous evening. He had half a mind to give the old wizard a swift kick after the utter _nuisance_ the dwarves had been. Of all things, they had asked him, a Shire hobbit to go gallivanting into some unknown wilderness to sleep among dirt and who knows what, all to invade the home of a sleeping (or not) dragon, and not after they had _juggled_ , _JUGGLED_ his most fine placewares in a raucous song that, while admittedly catchy, had nearly drove him to fits.

It was all most irregular.

He turned onto his side, mulling over the events for the hundredth time. He found that he should be angry with the party of dwarves, but as hard as he tried, he could only muster an almost fond annoyance of the group. They had been quite strange, indeed, but he found their quest to be one of measurable nobility. To take themselves, over mountains and unseen dangers, to take their once splendid home of Erebor from the sleepless evil of a dragon was worthy of songs and epics, ones that simply didn't exist in the Shire save for tales of gods and creation. They spoke of their Lonely Mountain with a reverence, Bilbo guessed, which was only capable of coming from a dwarf so familiar with jewel and stone for their hearth.

It wasn't until later in the evening, when _King_ Thorin had begun to sing a song, calling to the mountain with emotion incapable of coming from one who had not suffered a great deal, that he had even considered them in a manner he could recognize with. Of all things, hobbits valued home and hearth more than any, and to see the dwarves speak of their lost kingdom . . . well, Bilbo could think of no greater misery. Something awoke within Bilbo, then, a small spark of something that called him out of his hobbit hole, and through the forests past Bree and Buckland to some place that he had never known, somewhere without hobbit holes and cousins that would bother you to steal your mother's furnishings. Somewhere, he noted, by means of an adventure.

Suddenly, Bilbo sat up from his bed, no longer satisfied by crisp sheets and the warmth of the morning. He had not yet made up his mind, though he had seemed stern in his denial of their offer the previous evening, and he wished to speak with the dwarves a bit more about the details of their quest before he truly made up his mind. Only, when he went out into his drawing room, he found everything in its place, as if no strangers had ever come to his home before.

The dwarves had left without him.

He thought back to his previous evening; the kind face of Balin as he looked upon his company, the quiet, but most beautiful singing of the young Ori as he joined his brethren in song, and Thorin, with his bearded face forever construed in a manner that Bilbo could only describe as brooding. There was something about that dwarf, even though Bilbo had no relation or kin to him that made Bilbo want to follow him to all the ends of Middle Earth with the same fervor that had hold over his company.

He was suddenly afraid, then, in a way he had never been in all of his fifty years. A strange coldness came over him, and he shivered in an odd fear; fear for in all of his years to come, if he didn't follow those dwarves out of his door, he would never leave it. He would spend the rest of his days before his hearth and fire, hosting neighbors and kin without seeing faces of anyone unfamiliar. Bilbo could see himself, in his old age with brittle bones, telling the same old stories that every Hobbit had to tell, complaining about the damp in the air, passing each day away with the knowledge that he had never once done anything of note in his long years.

He ran, then, from those thoughts, darting about his hobbit hole in a flurry he didn't know he had in himself before first breakfast, gathering this and that, whatever he could guess would be needed for someone leaving home for some while. He forgot things, of course, but not the contract he had been left the night before. And with a definitive click, the door of Bag End swung closed, marking the end of the life of the quiet hobbit in Bag End, and the beginning of the adventures of Bilbo Baggins.

o-O-o


	3. Chapter 3

o-O-o

Nearly two weeks had passed since Bilbo Baggins of the Shire had left the comfort of his hole in the ground to join a traveling band of dwarves to reclaim the lost mountain of Erebor, and Bilbo Baggins felt like a silly old sod for ever thinking that he would be getting his seven meals in along the road. He had, much to his dismay, grabbed his second most fine teapot when running out his door the morning of his leave, with all intentions to continue his familiar schedule of afternoon tea. The first time he had removed the pot from his pack, stuffed full of jams and biscuits for his provisions, he had received a _very_ firm stare of disgust from Dwalin, who then proceeded to walk over to Bilbo, take the pot (with a much too firm grip for Bilbo's liking), and throw it some length away from their camp and into the flowing waters of the Brandywine (much more untoward Bilbo's liking). Bilbo didn't speak for nearly two days after the event, though the company seemed quite content to mock him for the azaelias that were painted onto the design of the tea pot, which made him sulk even more. Gandalf took quite a laugh from the whole ordeal.

Bilbo sat down on a softer patch of grass some days after that, stomach rumbling in anticipation at the evening's meal (of which he was receiving only two per day on their travels, much to his dislike). He pulled his waist coat about him, chilled by the cool air of the evening, when to his surprise, a thick and quite smelly coat fell on top of his head.

"I thought you looked a trifle cold lad," said old Balin, taking his own seat next to Bilbo. "I know you think we dwarves quite strange, but we don't like to see a friend suffer when we can help it."

"Friend," Bilbo said, "might not be appropriate word from what I've seen so far. More like 'tolerated acquaintance,' though I'm not complaining, might I say." Balin snorted, and shook his great beard in a small denial with a smirk. "Oh, you'll come round to everyone young Master Hobbit, and they'll come round to you. Us dwarves are hard skulled, and it does take some time for us to warm to strangers, even among our own folk." Bombur came round then, handing them both a bowl of some stew that Bilbo guessed had at least three types of meat and, to no surprise, a lack of vegetables.

"Even though you don't think it, no one here dislikes you, lad. Sure a good few had their doubts as to whether you'd even show up, but I was in the lot that had faith," Balin said with a hearty laugh.

"And those that didn't think so," Bilbo asked, "I'd imagine that they aren't too happy to see me."

"It's not quite that, my boy. They, well . . . doubt your fortitude in light of the coming circumstances."

" _I_ doubt my fortitude Mister Balin, that I do." Bilbo replied as he blew steam from his bowl. "I've taken quite a few day trips out into the forests near Southfarthing, but nothing quite like this."

Balin looked at him, and Bilbo was surprised to find confidence toward him in his features. "You know, in spite of what you may think, not everyone here was too keen on this adventure at the start, even if you think us all war hardened spirits," he said, looking over at Ori, who was busy scribbling in his little green bound book like always. "We're not all fighters, lad. Some of us only learned to defend our own in quite dire of circumstances. Sometimes all you need is a bit of a push to find that you have greatness in you." He looked at Bilbo with a sudden frown, "Though I hope that push never comes for you Master Baggins . . . but I fear it will."

With that, Balin rose from his spot giving Frodo a curt nod and wiping away all previous concern from his features. Bilbo watched him go, walking across the fire to sit with Nori who was fiddling with what Bilbo could have sworn looked like one of his own silver spoons. His gaze shifted across the fire, and to his surprise he was met with the gaze of Thorin from the edge of the group. Bilbo jumped a bit in Balin's coat, surprised by the intensity of the glare, but as quick as it had been there, Thorin looked back toward the vastness of the valley below their camp, leaving Bilbo to wonder what he was thinking.

When suddenly two dwarves plopped themselves down rather heftily down on either side of Bilbo, startling him into sloshing broth onto his trousers.

"Master Baggins," Fili said, "Good evening," Kili added.

There was silence as the two beamed down at Bilbo, who had taken to cleaning bits of soup from his self. Begrudgingly, but not in an unfriendly way, he indulged whatever mischief the two brothers were up to.

". . . . . good evening?"

"Ah, there, Fili, he's come about he has!" Kili said, clapping Bilbo on the back, spilling yet another wake of his own broth onto Bilbo. "We thought you looked like you could use our company."

"Rightly so Master Hobbit, and Kili and I couldn't yet a little thing like yourself shiver over here all by your own," Fili said, with another firm pat. And more broth.

"Especially not with all the wargs and crawlies howling away out there, Fili."

"No, Kili, it would be unbecoming of us not to protect Master Baggins from the things in the night."

"Not,"

Pat.

"At,"

Pat.

"All, Fili."

"Oh for all's _sakes_ you two, would you _please_ stop brandishing your bowls at me like your weapons?! Some great defenders you are, it'll take hours for these trousers to dry off, mind you two."

The brothers gave each other a knowing look, and turned to Bilbo, who had risen to practically wring out his pants, each giving him a devilish smirk, "Deepest apologies Master Burglar," Fili began, "there is no greater offense to a Hobbit, I'm sure," Kili finished.

"Oh, come off it lads, you've had enough fun with him for one night," Bofur called from the cooking pot, "The poor lad hasn't any meat on his bones, he'll right freeze to death if you douse 'im any farther."

Bilbo shot Bofur an incredibly thankful look, and was met with the same. The two brothers stood, shrugging the affair off, and gave him a simultaneous bow before running off to, what looked like, stuff acorns into Oin's hearing trumpet.

Bilbo sighed, and went to sit closer to the fire in hope that he might take off at least some of the wetness lest he had to sleep in a sopping mess.

"Do all Hobbits sigh so much, Master Baggins, or is it just some quirk of your own," Bofur asked, twitching up his brows in a friendly question.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo started, "I'm just a bit cranky from being so wet."

"Aye, but I've seen it more than just now," Bofur said. The dwarf mussed about his hat, pulling it down farther onto his head. "And you'd best grow more toward the notion of being wet. You're lucky we haven't yet run into any downpours, but it'll happen soon. Can't go making camp and shelter just to stave off a little rain," Bofur winked, "or dinner."

o-O-o

Bilbo came to notice things about the troupe of dwarves during their nightly respites, each one set in their own habits.

Dori and Nori largely kept to themselves, with Dori often playing a quiet tune from a number of flutes that he had apparently whittled on his way to meet with the other dwarves, and was quite a skilled player. Ori always had his nose in a small journal, constantly scribbling down the day's events as they unfolded, and Bilbo couldn't help but wonder how a most curious and gentle spirit had come to join the dwarven fellowship. Nori, he was fairly sure, had taken a number of 'souvenirs' from his home before they left, but he had swiftly decided to ignore it lest he grow any more grumpy than he was.

Oin often flitted about the group, always poking and prodding to make sure no one was uncomfortable or injured. Though Bilbo didn't much want to admit it, his salves and one very strong poultice had done a wonder on his quite raw legs, not used to the rough nature of a saddle. Gloin would always sit away from the group, smoking pipe weed from a rather ornate looking piece, whose sweet smoke Bilbo didn't recognize as anything Shire made, while mussing about the groups coin purse, counting and recounting how much money that had.

Bifur . . . well Bifur didn't say much, as Bilbo expected, what with the crude looking axe sticking directly from his skull, though he was sure the fellow knew some form of signage that he often tossed at Bofur whom always seemed to know exactly what he was getting at. Bombur of course prepared nearly every meal for the group, seeming to have a passion for cook craft that could rival a hobbit.

Balin seemed to take a liking to spending his nights chatting with Bilbo about this and that, and Bilbo grew quite fond of him in those times, glad he had someone to share in his ramblings. Dwalin was never seen much far away from their leader, always chatting him up about the road ahead, or scouting the next day's path. And then there was Thorin, who Bilbo could simply not pin down in any course of action.

That is, if you don't include brooding as a formal hobby.

Bilbo could count with less than one hand's fingers the number of conversations he'd had with the dwarf, and didn't need any to recount the ones that had been anything approaching pleasant.

In all of his life, Bilbo Baggins had never come across a creature so simultaneously frustrating and garnering curiosity. He found that no matter what he did or said to him, he was always met with a look that implied he was being judged of every action. Bilbo took Balin's words to heart, and tried to hold hope that the dwarf was simply being cautionary toward his strangeness as a hobbit, but all be damned if it wasn't infuriating. Even a simple 'good morning' or 'hello, Thorin' was met with little more than a nod and a near discernible narrowing of eyes. It was clear that Bilbo was not to be trusted. But, he decided, as long as he could win the friendship of the others (except Dwalin whom he still had a great aversion to out of fear for his life), he could be content with his lot among them. But still, Bilbo did wish that he could have at least one conversation with him without being gratingly unwelcome.

If Thorin were a hobbit, Bilbo concluded, he would get along wonderful with his cousin Lobelia.

Yet, he did not fully resign to being forever shunned from Thorin's good graces. Bilbo decided that, if the time was ever right, he would want to know more of the dwarf's story.

o-O-o

The days went on, and as they passed, Bilbo found himself wishing more often for a fine hearth and a warm nook to tuck into than he would have imagined, much to his dismay.

His 'adventure,' if he dared call it even that, was nothing like he had thought. In truth, he wasn't expecting something so grand as to shake the histories, but he certainly wasn't looking forward to the legacy of their journey from what he had witnessed so far. He simply couldn't wait for the tales to be sung about the cranky, grumpy hobbit traveling with a band of mismatched dwarves who trounced through the countryside with an unneeded burglar whom was scarcely shown any common courtesy of companionship by their leader, and found himself growing more and more tired of the entire notion of their quest as time went on. Oh yes, glorious material indeed. His feet ached, his back creaked beneath the weight of too many items carried, and he had a small sniffle that wouldn't shake no matter how many times he blew his nose.

It simply wasn't possible, he thought, that he had found a group of creatures that were more complaintive than the _Sackville- Baggins_. Yet he could be wrong, as he found, one afternoon when the group had retired early to make camp near the ruin of what seemed to once be a small farm. They all walked into the grassy clearing, to be met by the din of Thorin and Gandalf bickering about their stop, with the wizard warning that it was an unwise notion to rest in a place that had been tainted by unjust death. Thorin, not hearing a word of it, for Bilbo was sure his pride was thicker than his dense skull, puffed out his chest and told Gandalf off of the matter, leaving the wizard to walk off on his own, seeking the company of the only reasonable one in the company.

His self.

"Come on Bombur, we're hungry," Thorin called with a sour tone.

Bilbo turned to Balin next to him, who was shaking his head looking tired of the whole thing. "Is he coming back," Bilbo asked the old dwarf, whose response was an unsure look.

After that, Bilbo had sat down with a huff, and removed his pack to stretch his cramping legs. Laying his head back onto his bed roll, he closed his eyes in exhaustion, and let his mind wander away from all the negativity.

He found himself thinking again of his home in the Shire; of his large book case, filled with ten or so novels that he hadn't yet got round to opening, the satisfaction and warm giddiness that came from downing the last gulp of ale in a pint at The Green Dragon, and of his bed, oh his _bed_ , that haunted him every night as he lay his head down onto the rockiness of the wilderness.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, Bilbo knew why Shire folk didn't dare decide to go on adventures. They weren't a hard won people; they had no battles to fight, nor creatures to usurp among their rolling hills and seasonal gardens. The hardest battle a hobbit faced was weeding an unruly patch of melons, or choosing the right fabric for a new armchair. He was far out of his element, and he knew it well, and it frustrated the more he thought of it.

Bilbo was, indeed, jealous of the dwarves. Not of their plight in their loss of their home, no, he pitied them greatly for that, but for their fervor in life. It hadn't struck him until he sat down to listen to their grand tales of battle and of kin, but these people lived a life much removed from his own quiet existence, and he loathed himself for it. They knew of the dangers and wonders of the world, and what did he know? Recipes and crochet patterns.

Out here in the wilds of the world, Bilbo found himself quite useless. He couldn't hunt for game for supper, he couldn't start a fire, though Bofur had made it a personal vendetta to teach him to use a flint and steel, and he surely couldn't fight or hold his own. Not that he was eager to get the chance.

But they had run into a few troubles along the way of their journey, and each time Bilbo could do nothing but be crowded behind the dwarves as they warned him to stay back from whatever had befell them.

It made Bilbo feel utterly, completely stupid. And that feeling did not help his love of their journey. Maybe the glances and glares he received when no one thought he was looking were well deserved. After all, here he was on a journey not his own, leaving others to pine over him like a mother hen at every shred of danger.

Some small part of Bilbo, smaller than the one that yearned for his home, wanted his self to change, to become daring like the dwarves, to find some of the greatness that Balin had talked about.

But in the end, Bilbo resigned from that, either too afraid or too uncomfortable at the thought of being anything but Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, quiet and peaceful Hobbit of the Shire.

And in the end, he started to loathe himself for it.

o-O-o

Some time later, after they had all tucked in to a bit of Bombur's stew, Bilbo was carrying two hot bowls of it to Fili and Kili who were meant to be on watch of the ponies. He approached them, trying hard not to exact some small revenge by 'accidentally' spilling it on the two, but he couldn't get any of them to take them.

"What's wrong?"

"Well we were supposed to be watching the ponies," said Killi, "but we've ran into a slight problem."

"We had sixteen," Fili added, "but now we've got fourteen."

"How in the world could you two loose two _ponies_?!" Bilbo said in slight exasperation, when Kili pointed suddenly through the trees.

"There's a light over there, I saw it!" The two crept closer, Bilbo following still carrying the bowls, and they stopped behind an old tree, felled and covered with moss. "Someone should check it out."

"Don't you think we should be getting Thorin," Bilbo asked, half turned to go back himself.

"No," Fili replied, pointing over to the light in the darkness, "as our certified Burglar, we thought you might want to look into the matter." Before Bilbo could utter a protest, the two plucked the bowls from his hands, and grabbed under his arms, lifting him past the tree and toward the flickering light.

"If you should run into any trouble, hoot twice like and barn owl, and twice like a brown owl!"

Bilbo shook his head, taking a few steps forward before he sputtered in place, realizing the absolute absurdity of what was happening.

"Twice like a b-, or was it once, or," he realized he was speaking to his self. " _Fili . . . KILI!_ " But the two were long since gone, or hiding.

". . . right, then."

Bilbo crept quietly forward on light and nervous feet, going some yards before he heard the crackle of a fire, and three rather whining voices.

"Mutton today, mutton yesterday, and if it don't look like we'll be havin' mutton _tomorrow_ ," the voice said. Bilbo crept closer, until he finally saw three monstrous trolls rounding a large pot cooking over a fire, whose scent was enough to sting Bilbo's eyes even from so far away.

"Quit 'yer whinin', these is Western ponies," another said, dragging a huge ladle through the pot.

"Yeah," began the third, "these is much better'n that mangly old farmer we had'n last week. Still pullin' bits of 'em out me teeth I am," it chuckled ferociously.

"AAACHOO," the first yelled, sending a rather large ball of snot rolling across the way and nearly to Bilbo's feet, in the most absolutely disgusting display that Bilbo had the misfortune of witnessing.

"Oh, that's just lovely right there inn't?" Said the second, cracking the sniveling one over the head with the large spoon.

' _Excellent,'_ Bilbo thought, _'simply brilliant display here.'_

Rubbing what Bilbo guessed would soon be a large lump, the sickly one pulled out a crude, snot encrusted rag from the side of its loincloth, revealing a rather intimidating looking knife tucked into its belt. Behind him, the ponies whimpered and stomped their feet from the sight of it. Seeing the opportunity, Bilbo began to retreat for a moment to grab Fili or Kili, but remembered that they had gone. Thinking for a few moments, twitching his fingers, he finally decided to do something altogether stupid, and went off round the clearing to where the ponies where held.

He creeped along, watching the three trolls argue amongst themselves, until he found the chance to slip behind the thick post of the pony's pen, just before one reached behind to near Bilbo's hiding spot to grab a crudely constructed tankard.

"Oi, William, tha's me grog you grabbed there!" The fattest called, prodding his finger into the other's chest.

"Blimey, Burt watch where yer pokin' that finger!"

"Oh, stop the yammerin' you two, me guts is grumblin' and yer soddin' off when you should be cookin'!"

Bilbo clambered over behind the one with the knife, barely ducking behind his flailing hands, and sat low beneath its hulking form. The ponies behind him began to whinny at his sight, Myrtle trying to stick her nose out to him, and Bilbo rushed to hush them in a quiet tone. But they would not stop, growing more agitated, and he knew that he didn't have much time before he was found. Carefully, he began to stand, and slipped the great knife out from the troll's waistband. He had nearly finished cutting through the rope around the pen when the arguing began again.

"Argh, enough of it, flesh, I need flesh!" William shouted, grabbing wildly behind him to the pen of horses, only to grab Bilbo by mistake. With another great cry, the troll began to sneeze again, and brought what he had grabbed up to his nose to catch the filth, smearing Bilbo with a long, slightly green, trail of troll booger.

"AHHH!" It yelled, pointing wildly toward Bilbo, "Look what's come out me 'ooter! Arms and legs and all!"

"What is it?" The cook called over, sniffing at Bilbo.

"I dun' like it wrigglin' like that," the third cried.

"What'ya think it is," called the first, sniffling, letting Bilbo slide onto the ground, "some kind 'erve exotic squirrel?"

Bilbo stood eyes closed, desperately attempting to scrub some of the snot from his eyes and mouth.

"I," he sputterd, "am a burgl- ah, I mean, hobbit,"

The cook scoffed at Bilbo, picking him up by his feet and dangling him dangerously close to the fire. "Never 'erd of 'em before . . . can we eat 'im?" He said, drawing a crude filleting knife from his waistband. "Let's find out."

"DROP HIM!" Came a voice from the distance, and Bilbo watched Kili burst from the trees, bow drawn, followed closely by Fili and Thorin and the rest of the company. "I said, _drop him_."

"You want 'im?" Burt called down at the dwarves with a sneer, "you can 'ave 'im!" And he slung Bilbo through the air barreling toward Kili, falling hard onto him and seeing nothing but black.

o-O-o

Thorin was beginning to feel rather sick, on account of it was the hundredth time the wretched trolls had spun him round the fire spit, stripped down to his undershirts much to his annoyance. He grimaced all the while, turning, and turning, and turning until he rightly felt bile in the back of his throat. 

It was all rather annoying, he thought, as he looked over to the dwarves wriggling about in threadbare sacks in a pile.

If anyone, he thought, ever, _ever_ , dared to mention the night again, by Durin he would skin them faster than the cave trolls. He squirmed in his bindings, suddenly aware that a small piece of his long braid had begun to smoke from a stray ember.

"When I get out of this, you miserable _filth_ , I'll cut you raw!" He shouted, only met by the resounding laughs bellowing from the trolls, his threats meaning nothing in his current situation.

A situation, he noted, that would not have happened in the first place if not for the complete _stupidity_ of two foolish nephews, and a halfling that annoyed him more immeasurably with every passing morning. He looked to where he was laying, still knocked out from a pathetically soft blow to the head from landing on Kili. If he hadn't charged into meddling with the trolls like an absolute fool, and gone to warn the others, maybe he wouldn't be nearly on fire being sprinkled with rosemary and sage wanting to vomit. What a burden. He was tired of the halfling being preened and cooed by the members of the company, unable to hold his own, unable to defend himself in even the most un-harrowing of circumstances.

"What's going on," a soft voice called from the pile. It was the man of the hour himself. The hobbit jumped suddenly, looking around at the others in their bindings, Bofur giving him a widely acidic grin.

He was beginning to feel rather hot.

"Dawn ain' far away William, let's get a mov'n," the fat one called, his stench filling Thorin's nose as he drew closer, brandishing a rusted knife, "let's just fillet'im right now'n get it over wi-,"

"NO, no, no, you are making a _terrible_ mistake!"

' _What now?'_

The halfling stood up, as well as anyone tied into a sack could, and hopped closer to the three trolls, muttering about how they were being foolish. The only fool Thorin could see was the hobbit, who was about to get himself gutted by three hungry trolls.

"I, I, mean about the, about the seasoning," he told the trolls.

The one called Burt squinted at the halfling, lumbering over to him with his knife drawn. "What 'bout the seasoning?"

He shifted in place, looking back and forth between the knife coming closer to him and Thorin, obviously unaware of what he had gotten himself into. "Have you seen him," he said, nodding over to where Thorin was still turning, "better yet have you _smelled_ him? You're going to need something much stronger than sage if you plan to plate that one up."

How _dare_ he. "Traitor! You little Shire- rat, I'll remember that!" Thorin called down to him, spitting his words. For a moment, he had thought the halfling was going to finally be of some assistance to the company, but at the rate he was going, he might as well throw himself into the cooking fire before one of the others, namely himself, did.

For a moment, Thorin felt his body stop turning, throwing his head into fits at the sudden lack of motion. The troll that had been turning him over the fire joined the other by the hobbit, waving his ladle about. "What do you know about cookin', little squirrel?"

Thorin's vision was swimming, seeing about four hobbits at the same time, all their faces with unabashed surprise that his traitorous little conversation was going so well.

"Well, I, uh," he called, turning about, "know the . . . secret, yes the secret to cooking dwarves like that one."

The hobbit was lucky that Thorin's throbbing head didn't have any extra room at the moment for being angrier, though the string of curses coming from the pile of dwarves behind him was enough.

"An' what would that be? Talk burglaflurahobbit!"

' _Oh, this should be wonderful'_

"The uh, secret is, uh," the halfling said, looking rather desperate to and from Thorin to some spot in the trees. He obviously had no idea what he was talking about, and Thorin quite didn't care to hear any more of it. He blathered on, still looking yearningly toward the trees, toward Durin knows what. Thorin twisted his neck, looking through the waving heat of the fire, and caught a flash of grey through the light in the trees.

The light in the trees? The dawn was drawing near! Thorin looked to the hobbit, who met his own eyes with a small nod, and he knew what he'd been doing all along. The grey thing moved to Thorin's right now, coming to rest behind a rather large rock that had a corona of the sun's first breaths behind it. Clever. For the first time since the start of their journey, Thorin was glad that the hobbit was part of the company.

Suddenly, Gandalf's shadow loomed high over the rock, and his voice loomed over the clearing, "The dawn will take you all!" And he brought his staff down with a definitive strike, cracking the boulder clean in two, turning the trolls to stone as they screamed at the daylight.

The dwarves all cheered, calling out praises for the wizard, and for the hobbit, who had cut his own bindings and was looking for a way to free the others. He ran to the piles of their clothing, grabbing his own familiar garnet waistcoat, in a way that came from what Thorin guessed was embarrassment. Plucking a knife from the pile, he went back to the others and began hacking away at their sacks, setting them free.

They all met the hobbit with praise for his cunningness, most apologizing for having doubted his methods, though Dwalin still threatened to cut off at least one of the halfling's fingers if he ever insulted Thorin in such a manner again.

Whom, speaking of which, was starting to smell rather crisp as he was still hanging above a roaring blaze.

"Would someone like to cut me loose," Thorin asked from the spit with a king's patience.

Hearing his voice, the dwarves scrambled to him, fretting about how he was ever slightly on fire, and he gave them a sarcastic smile at their sudden concern. Finally let down, the blood rushed back into his head, and he doubled over from the sensation, the others clapping him on the back for staying alive.

Yet, he realized, looking over at the hobbit who was standing some ways away with the smallest grin of relief, that it was not his own doing that had saved his skin. For all the days that he had spent watching the hobbit from across the fire, doing naught but chatting about elevenses (whatever _that_ was), he had never thought that he would make anything of himself within the company. A burden, and a haughty one, was what he had weighed the halfling's worth as.

And Thorin Oakenshield knew, looking at this timid, weak, and utterly _brilliant_ hobbit, that he had never been so wrong.

o-O-o


End file.
